


where the heart is

by mixians



Category: Super Junior
Genre: Bullying, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixians/pseuds/mixians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's been years since he left china, and han geng misses home more than anything. but when he meets yehsung, he learns that maybe, china doesn't have to be home anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the heart is

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Vulnerable](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/28711) by taylormercury. 



> remix of taylormercury's "vulnerable" written for kpop_ficmix on lj!

When he’s told that he’ll be moving out of this room, getting a roommate, Han Geng doesn’t know whether to be excited or upset. After three years of living in the same room, all by himself, he’s grown both tired and used to being alone. He never has liked to be, but he figures he’ll miss the solitude, too. He’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have company, to have a _friend_.

He moves in with Yehsung the next week, and immediately, it’s apparent that he’s not wanted (not that that’s new to him). Every attempt Han Geng makes at conversation is rebuffed, and Yehsung would clearly much rather read a book than speak with him, or even look at him. But it’s not hard to see why: Yehsung doesn’t seem like someone who likes change.

But whether he’s friendly to others or not, Yehsung looks like he needs a friend. Han Geng thinks that maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to try to be that friend, to make the effort that no one’s made for Han Geng before. Maybe Yehsung will appreciate it.

“You liked your other roommate, didn’t you?” he asks one day, a couple of weeks after moving in. If he hadn’t already known the answer, the look Yehsung gives him would’ve told him everything.

“Yeah.”

“So, that’s why you don’t like me,” Han Geng nods. That’s not all, though, he muses as Yehsung stiffly turns around and goes back to reading his book. Yehsung doesn’t seem to like anyone else either. Yehsung is... different. Han Geng’s figured out everyone else in this place already, having had nothing better to do but watch them all these years, but somehow Yehsung is the only one he doesn’t quite understand. He never talks to any of the others, which is something they have in common, he supposes, but for Yehsung he thinks it might be because he doesn’t care about anyone else here; for Han Geng, it’s because no one here cares about _him_.

 

-

To say that the other kids at school don’t like him would be an understatement.

It's not uncommon for Han Geng to come back from school bruised and bleeding and tired; nor is it rare for him to come into a class without the homework he'd had ten minutes ago. And the only people who ever seem to care one bit are his teachers, who click their tongues and mutter to themselves about irresponsible students before giving him detention. It's been happening ever since he started going to this school, and every time Han Geng wonders if maybe one day he'll snap.

Today is about as good a day as any. He's missing his homework for three of tomorrow's classes already, his hair's a mess and there's mud on his left cheek; the crisp, white dress shirt of his uniform is now stained with patches of light brown and smudges of an ugly green, as are the knees of his pants. The teacher shoots him a disapproving look as he walks in, sighing and saying something that sounds like _uncivilized children, always roughhousing during breaks_ as she begins to write on the blackboard.

Math has never been his strongest subject, and Han Geng struggles through the lesson, something about vectors, hardly understanding a thing. The other kids throw crumpled-up pieces of paper at the back of his head and snicker. The teacher calmly ignores it—she's long since given up on trying to stop them—and Han Geng does his best not to get upset, because the teacher _will_ notice that: he's permanently stuck at the front of the classroom so she can “keep a close eye on” him during class. But it all grates on his nerves, a little, builds up like it always does, and by the end of class all he wants is to go home and dance the frustration away.

Of course, things don't often go the way Han Geng wants them to.

He's walked a quarter of the way back when he hears the footsteps, loud and heavy behind him, like they don't care enough to even bother to hide that they're there. Han Geng supposes they don't. He keeps walking, pretends like they're not there, and listens to the footsteps get closer and closer.

When they're just behind him, one of them grabs his arm and roughly turns him around.

“Oh, look who we have here,” the boy says, mouth twisting cruelly in what Han Geng thinks is supposed to be a smile. “Going back to that shitty little orphanage, are you?”

Han Geng grits his teeth and stares resolutely at a spot just over the boy's shoulder. He won't give in.

“Why are you even here?” another spits. “Go back to China. You don't belong here.”

He yanks his arm out of the first boy's grip and starts to walk away.

“What?” a third voice calls out mockingly. “Are you going to go home and cry to your mommy?”

Han Geng freezes.

“Oh, wait! He doesn't have one!” The boys all burst out laughing. Han Geng spins around and punches the boy behind him in the face. He reels, stunned for a moment, and then the rest of the boys lunge.

He's slammed into a small, wooden fence nearby when the second boy, who's rather big in comparison to him, hits him hard in the gut. The fence creaks painfully, and the boy smirks. Han Geng is doubled over in pain, breathing hard, and the boys laugh again.

“He's so weak,” one says scornfully. “Not that I _expected_ him to fight back. He never does.”

Han Geng takes a deep breath, pulls himself back up, and kicks him where it hurts.

Half an hour later, he slips into his room unnoticed by the others, as usual. His lip is swollen and bleeding, just starting to scab up, and he can feel the bruises left on his cheek, arms, and chest. There might also be some on his knuckles. He's gotten back too late to dance, he realizes when he sees Yehsung staring at him from his bed, shock evident on his face.

“What happened to you?” Han Geng thinks that might be the longest sentence Yehsung has said to him yet.

“Fight,” he says shortly, shrugging, “at school.” Maybe if he uses the same tactics that Yehsung does, he'll leave Han Geng alone.

“Why?” This time, Yehsung's voice is surprisingly quiet. Soft. That surprises him, a little, but he doesn't let it show.

He gives another shrug. He'd rather not talk about it, really. “They don't really like me,” he says, and hopes that Yehsung will give up.

But Yehsung sits up, lets the book he was reading fall from his hands, and frowns at him like he's trying to figure something out. “Why did you let them do this to you?”

A little bit of irritation bubbles up in him then, because Han Geng _knows_ Yehsung doesn't think all that differently from the boys at school; he thinks Han Geng is weak, the kind of person who gives in easily, never retaliates. The look of surprise on his face when Han Geng says “Who said I let them do it?” only confirms it.

They don't know anything, he thinks. They don't know him. No one does.

 

-

Most days, there's time after school, before Yehsung gets back, for him to dance. There's no music—he doesn't have any, hasn't had any in a long time—but somehow he still hears the familiar melodies in his head, feels the drum beats that he still remembers from the festivals he danced in, back in China; sometimes he dances to those routines that are etched into his memory, wild and fast and invigorating, and he can almost see the red and gold lanterns all around, the costumed performers walking nearby on stilts, the crowds of people gathered along the sides of the parade, not all paying attention, but caught up in the incredibly lively atmosphere. Sometimes, Han Geng cries, a little.

There are also some days when instead of dancing fast routines and forcing himself to stay light on his feet so he isn't reprimanded for disturbing others, he dances to the old songs his mother used to sing to him, soft and simple, slow and sweet. He dances something a little different every time, letting the songs sweep him away, until all the anger and stress has left his bones. Ballet has always been his favorite.

Today he dances to a song he always used to ask for, the one he remembers best; he glides across the floors, twirling and moving to the lilt of his mother’s voice in his head, and he loses himself in it. The room melts away around him, and he's back in his house in China again, dancing on soft earth and not the hard wood floor, outside in the yard where the space he has feels endless, instead of the too-small room he lives in now. He forgets himself, forgets the time, and before he knows it he's jolted back to reality; suddenly, he's acutely aware that he's not the only one in the room anymore. His eyes shoot wide open, and Yehsung stares back at him. Han Geng feels the heat rise to his cheeks, because, well. It's been years since anyone watched him dance, not since... before. It's a little embarrassing, anyways. He probably isn't even very good, without the lessons he used to take.

“I didn’t think you’d be back for awhile,” he says. Somehow it’s not just having someone see him that’s a bit humiliating—it’s that it was _Yehsung_ , too. Somehow... it matters.

“I’ve been suspended for a week,” Yehsung says impassively, starting to walk towards his bed, like nothing happened. Han Geng is a little grateful for that.

“Oh? What happened?”

He doesn’t expect an answer, but he gets one. “For making rude comments and not doing my homework. And for hitting another boy.” Yehsung rolls his eyes, and Han Geng laughs into his hand. It’s hardly surprising.

It’s only hours later, when they’re both starting to drift off, that Han Geng realizes that that was the first time he’s laughed in years.

 

-

It’s not easy in the beginning, with Yehsung there all week, but after a few days Han Geng manages to adjust to having an audience again. He makes sure not to show it when he’s upset on the bad days, ignores it when he can feel Yehsung watching his every move. Or, at least, he tries—it’s hard not to be a little self-conscious when he has Yehsung’s rapt attention.

And, although he’s still rather unfriendly, Yehsung seems to be warming up to him, a bit. Sometimes he lets little bits of information about himself slip, like what he used to like to do, or his favorite color, or what he likes to eat, and Han Geng gathers it up in his memory and makes sure to remember.

Maybe this isn’t friendship, not yet, but it’s progress. And for Han Geng, that’s more than enough.

 

-

It's not the first time Han Geng has had this nightmare.

Not that that makes him feel any better. It's the first he's had in weeks and he wakes up with his heart racing and shirt stuck to his skin, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Sometimes he wonders if the ringing has ever really stopped, since that day all those years ago.

That hardly makes him special, though. Everyone gets the nightmares, he knows. Sometimes he wakes up to hear Yehsung mumbling brokenly, or kicking and pushing desperately at his sheets in his sleep; then, it’s all too easy to give into the urge to go to him, wrap his arms around him, whisper quiet assurances in his ear like his mother used to when he had bad dreams.

He’s not surprised to find that Yehsung is always hostile when he wakes. Yehsung is angry, so angry, has been for a long time, but such bitter anger is a hard thing to hold onto; Han Geng hopes that maybe, he can be the one to help Yehsung let it go.

 

-

Han Geng wakes to the sounds of another nightmare. This time, when Yehsung wakes, he doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t glare and shove Han Geng away. Improvement. He chances a question— “What did you dream about?”

He never expects an answer when he asks questions like these, but Yehsung is always surprising him.

“I’m in this room, this big room,” Yehsung says, “and it’s full of people, everyone.” _My parents_ goes unspoken. “People I know—knew—people I don’t. You know?” Han Geng knows. Sometimes, his dreams are like this, too.

Yehsung goes on, after a moment. “And it’s nice, at first. Everyone’s there. But as I go through the room and try to talk to them, they don’t see or hear me, and they all start to disappear. Everything starts to fade.” Han Geng puts his arms around him, and for once Yehsung doesn’t try to mask the vulnerability that Han Geng has always seen in him. “And the room gets smaller and smaller, until everything’s black, and I’m left on my own.”

His voice is nearly trembling, and Han Geng _knows_ , he knows how Yehsung feels, so well. He just wishes he knew how to tell him that.

“We all get the dreams, Yehsung,” he tries weakly. It’s a rather futile attempt at comfort. “They’re only dreams.”

 _They’re only dreams._ It’s what Han Geng tells himself every time; he’s pretty sure he knows better than anyone just how much of a lie that is.

Yehsung says nothing. Han Geng is pretty sure he doesn’t believe it, either. Yehsung only struggles a little before relaxing, falling asleep in his embrace. Looking down at Yehsung, asleep in his arms, Han Geng thinks that this is what it must be like to be trusted.

 

-

“Hankyung,” Yehsung says one night; Han Geng is in his bed again, fingers combing through Yehsung’s hair absentmindedly as Yehsung calms down from the first nightmare he’s had in weeks.

“Han Geng,” he tells him, “call me Han Geng. It’s my Chinese name.”

“Han Geng,” Yehsung says, and his pronunciation is terribly off, but it’s the first time anyone has said his Chinese name in years, and something in him that might just be his heart fills with warmth at the sound. “Tell me about yourself.”

Yehsung’s never asked about Han Geng before, not really. Sometimes he asks him to tell stories, in a childlike sort of way, and Han Geng tells him about dancing and his old friends and all the silly things they used to do as dares. Han Geng knows he likes to hear, but he never asks about Han Geng’s _life_ , specifically.

“I was born in Mudanjiang, Heilongjiang province,” he begins. “I lived with my parents and younger sister—she was six years younger than me—and we weren’t rich, far from it, but we were still better off than most.

“I saw some dancers performing at a festival once, and I wanted to be just like them, wanted so badly to dance with them too, so my parents signed me up for dance lessons. I loved it, but it was expensive, and after my father started drinking and gambling every day, we just couldn’t afford it anymore. He took out a loan from the wrong people later on—we couldn’t pay our bills, and he was desperate—and he couldn’t pay it back in time. So they came to our house, one night. I think I was twelve. My parents hid us in a couple of the cabinets, but my sister started crying after the first gunshot, and they—they found her. I’m lucky, I guess, that they didn’t find me, too.

“There wasn’t space left at the orphanage nearby, but this was the next closest one, or maybe the flight here was cheaper than the train to Beijing. So they sent me here. It was—difficult, especially at first, but I guess you could say I’ve had it easier than most. That at least I wasn’t abandoned, at least I got to have a decent childhood, at least—”

“No,” Yehsung says, “I don’t think that at all.” He looks a little surprised at himself. Han Geng offers him a half-smile.

“In any case, I’ve put it mostly behind me. I don’t think I’ve really thought about it in a long time. And things have been better lately, I think, so there’s no use in dwelling on it. I miss China a lot, though. It’s been years, but I still miss home so much.”

“It’s only a few years ‘til they kick us out, anyways,” Yehsung says softly. Han Geng wonders if that’s sadness he hears in Yehsung’s words, with maybe a hint of fear—but it’s silly. Yehsung hates this place more than anything. “You can go back, then.”

“Maybe,” Han Geng says. He really misses it, he does, but sometimes, he’s not so sure he wants to go back anymore. Han Geng has almost forgotten what it’s like to be alone, and China, he thinks, might just teach him about it all over again.

 

-

“Everyone leaves, you know. Eventually, everyone leaves.”

It’s barely dawn. The birds have just started to sing, and Han Geng and Yehsung are still talking, still awake; it’s not a rare thing, anymore, even as the nightmares become less and less frequent. These days, neither of them really needs that kind of comfort all that often. These days, when they’re together, they talk about anything, everything.

“No,” Han Geng says into Yehsung’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair. “Not everyone. No one wants me either, you know.” It’s not totally true, though, he realizes, because he wants Yehsung, wants to stay with him, go with him to China one day, go everywhere with him—but for now, he thinks, it’s okay like this, with Yehsung curled up by his side. Like this, Han Geng thinks that even this place feels a little bit like home.


End file.
